


About a Girl

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Series: girl!Sam-five ways [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, girl!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-14
Updated: 2008-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 22:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's shocking enough to make her freeze for a second, that there could be a time or place where Dean doesn't know she's <em>Sam</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	About a Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing.

Sam takes a sip of her drink--tonic water with a twist, though if anyone asks, it's a vodka tonic and she's slightly tipsy--and eyes the room. It's still early, and there are only a few groups of happy hour regulars scattered around the bar, rather than the packs of college-age guys and girls she knows will show up as the night goes on. She doesn't hustle here often, because too many people she knows from school hang out here, but it's summer now, and the crowd is a little different. And she needs the money.

She sets her drink down on the edge of the pool table and lines up her shot, missing it on purpose and muttering to herself as if that weren't exactly what she'd meant to do. It costs a little money (and she can still hear Dean's voice, Gotta spend money to make money, Sammy, when she'd complained that he'd used her stash to hustle; he'd walked out two hundred bucks richer that night, and sent it all with her when she left), but most guys are all too easy to fool into thinking she doesn't know what she's doing, and the ones she doesn't fool, she distracts. It's different now, and it still gives her a little thrill.

The hair on the back of her neck prickles, and she can feel the weight of a stare on her as she bends over the table, wiggles her hips a little to give whoever it is a show, still not used to the way she looks, the effect she has on men when she's dressed like this, short skirt clinging to her hips and showing off her legs.

She catches a whiff of Ivory soap and hair gel when she turns, and finds herself staring at Dean's face, his eyes dark and his mouth curved in an appreciative grin. She's tall for a girl, even in flats, and doesn't have to do more than tilt her chin up a little to meet his gaze.

It's been almost a year, and she's not used to him anymore, finds herself shocked by how good he looks, how he still makes her want things she shouldn't--can't--have.

She tightens her hands on the pool cue so she doesn't fling herself at him, and smiles in response.

"You look like you could use a little help," he says.

She blinks, because he taught her to play when she was ten, so he of all people should _know_ what she's doing. It must be some kind of test. That's okay, though, because the test hasn't been invented yet that she couldn't pass.

"I guess I could," she says before the pause stretches too long.

He puts a hand on her waist, turns her back towards the table, and she has to swallow hard, force herself to keep breathing, because he smells of _home_ and _safe_ and _Dean_, and she's missed him more than she could ever admit, even to herself.

His voice is a low, seductive rumble in her ear; she doesn't know what he's saying, and she knows it doesn't matter--it's the sound of it that makes her wet and achy, the touch of his hands over hers on the cue, on her hip, the memory of those fingers sliding against her pussy until she came apart, choking on the single syllable of his name. It hadn't happened often, and they'd never talked about it, and she wonders, sometimes, if he thinks that's why she left. If he knows that's one of the reasons she desperately wanted to stay.

Her shot goes wide by a mile, and it's not on purpose this time.

His smile is teasing, but not mocking, which confuses her for a second, because she knows how this goes--she gets something wrong, he makes fun of her until she gets annoyed and stops talking to him, and then he cajoles her out of her sulk. It's been that way forever, and the change in their routine now is throwing her off-balance.

"It's okay," he says, lips right next to her ear even though the music isn't that loud, and the warmth of his breath sends a shiver down her spine. "You'll get it right next time."

It's the kind of encouragement he's always given her, always been the safety net she could fall into when things went wrong, the security she'd cut away when she'd left, screaming that John Winchester didn't have two sons, and never had, that he'd had a son and a _daughter_, and it didn't matter how he'd dressed her or what he'd called her, she'd always been a girl and always would be.

It had been confusing and exhilarating those first few weeks, freed from eighteen years of boy clothes and boy behavior, and she feels that exhilaration again now, with the brief touch of Dean's fingers, warm and callused, on her bare thigh beneath her skirt before his hand settles on her hip again.

He bends her forward, his hands curled around hers on the cue stick, and she can't help it, she wriggles back against him, ass pressed to his crotch, enjoying the quick intake of his breath and the way his fingers tighten over hers.

"That's dirty pool," he says, his voice rough and dark.

Her own voice sounds foreign and breathless when she answers, "Just checking to see if you were paying attention."

"Oh, honey, I'm riveted." That's a tone he's never used with her, and she starts to think maybe he doesn't recognize her--her hair is blonde now, her eyebrows plucked, her mouth painted pink. It's shocking enough to make her freeze for a second, that there could be a time or place where Dean doesn't know she's _Sam_.

Then he gives her a dazzling smile, the one she'd always thought was for her alone, and she can't help but smile back.

"If you two aren't planning on playing--" A guy in khakis and a Gap button-down gives them a false smile; a second guy, wearing a beat up Raiders cap, hovers behind him.

Dean half-turns to face the guy, his right hand lingering on her hip, and says, "Oh, we're playing. You wanna take us on?"

And her doubts are chased away.

They lose the first game, but it's close. She plays helplessly, as if the two balls she sinks are total flukes, and Dean plays well enough to lull their opponents into thinking he's good, but saddled with a girl who isn't. She flirts with him, pretends to distract him, slips her hands into his pockets, and presses quick kisses to his neck and jaw. She tells herself it's all a show. She's had eighteen years of pretending to be something she's not; this isn't the first time she's wished a lie were the truth.

They win the next two games, and after he splits the cash with her, he swings her into a kiss, tongue hot and slick in her mouth, stubble rough against her cheek, the shock of need and pleasure making her knees weak. She holds onto his shoulders, always broad enough to bear her weight, and presses up against him.

"Come on," he says against her mouth, and then he slides an arm around her waist and guides her into the ladies room, locking the door behind them. She's expecting him to laugh and congratulate her on playing her part so well, and she's already marshaling her excuses for letting herself be swept away by their playacting, but he just stares at her for a long moment, mouth opening and closing like he's not sure what he wants to say. She's not sure she wants to hear it, so she curls her fingers around the lapels of his jacket and tilts her head up to meet his gaze.

He kisses her again, more demanding this time, tongue pushing hard into her mouth like a preview of what's to come. He doesn't break the contact as he walks her back into the wall, the faded pink tile hard and cool through the thin cotton of her dress. He slips a knee between her thighs and presses up, and she can't help but grind down against his thigh, the thin lace of her panties already soaked through.

He grins against her neck when he reaches down and slides his fingers under the elastic, the touch so different from the time he'd taught her to stuff the odd looseness of her tighty whiteys with a sock when he'd realized she couldn't pass for a boy without one anymore; now his fingers are lingering and firm, not tentative or furtive at all. She gasps and tips her head back. He takes that as encouragement.

"You're so wet," he murmurs, and he sounds amazed, like it's the best thing he's ever felt. She can't form words to answer, because it's _Dean_ and he's _touching her_, and she knows it's wrong, but she can't really bring herself to care, not when she's wanted it for so long. "What do you want?" he asks, as if he knows what she's thinking, his voice in her ear vibrating with laughter and lust.

"I--" She wants everything he can give her, and she doesn't know how to say it, words slipping from her mind like water through a sieve, so she just brings a hand up, touches his mouth, pink and slick from their kisses. "You," she says finally. It's the truth, after all.

He laughs, delighted and cocky, and kisses her again quickly, then goes to his knees. He doesn't seem to care about the dirty floor or the way the bathroom smells of cheap soap and ammonia. He slides his hands up her thighs, pushes her skirt up into her hands and says, "Hold that for me, would you?" He slides her panties down, smiling, and she's glad she's wearing the black lace bikinis instead of her usual cotton boy-cut briefs. When she lifts her foot clear, he grabs her ankle, drapes her leg over his shoulder. She's never gotten the nerve up to go for a bikini wax, and she wonders if maybe she should have, and then she can't think at all, because his mouth is on her, tongue moving over her clit. He's got two fingers inside her, and she can't help but thrust against his mouth, head tipped back against the tile and eyes closed against how good it feels, even though she'd really like to keep them open so she could watch this, believe it's actually happening.

He hums something that might be "Smoke on the Water," and if she weren't _thisclose_ to coming, she'd smack him in the head and call him a dork, but the vibration in tandem with the way he's sucking her clit makes her come apart, pleasure pulsing through her hard and sweet.

He surges to his feet before she's near done, her leg caught in the loop of his elbow as he gets his fly open and shoves his jeans and boxer-briefs down, condom at the ready.

He pushes into her hard and fast, no teasing now, and she wraps her other leg around him, lets him take her weight as he fucks her against the wall. His mouth is slick and salty from her cunt, and she licks his face clean, tastes herself on his skin, on his tongue. He growls, hands tight on her ass, blunt nails digging in, and she can't catch her breath; the relentless rhythm he's set up steals it from her lungs, sets tension building in her again. She reaches down between them to finger her clit, gasping into his mouth.

It doesn't take long until she's shaking apart again, best thing she's ever felt, and this time, he's right there with her, grunting as he comes, hips jerking hard into her. She's going to have bruises on her ass, but she doesn't care.

"Dean," she murmurs against his cheek, holding him close when he's done, stroking her hands through his hair, which tickles her palms. She wants to tell him how much she's missed him.

He stills in her embrace, and pulls back. "Don't." His eyes are wide, wild, like he's been caught red-handed and his escape routes are all blocked.

She freezes as well, lowers shaky legs to the floor. "Dean?" A question now, a plea.

He stares at her, his breathing still ragged and sharp. "Sam?"

"Who else would I be?" She jerks away as far as she can with the wall at her back; without it, she doesn't know if she'd be able to stay upright. He doesn't answer, lets the silence stretch in a way that makes it hard for her to breathe. "You mean you didn't know? How could you not know?" Her voice rises shrilly and her stomach turns at the thought.

"I didn't," he says, low and guilty, the way he'd get sometimes after Dad found fault with something, but he can't hold her gaze. He never could, when he was lying. She'd finally figured that out when she was fourteen.

"Liar."

"Sam. Sammy. I--" He doesn't offer a denial, but won't give her the truth she wants to hear, either. He steps back, and she lets him, forces herself not to cling. She's always been the one to let go. And she gave up the right to hold on when she walked out.

"How could you not know?" she asks again, her voice broken this time, almost a whisper.

He reaches a hand up to touch her cheek, but lets it fall before it does. "I didn't want to." He sounds as broken as she does.

"Get out."

"Sam."

"Get the fuck out," she snarls, hands curling into fists, vicious as Dad was the day he told her not to come back if she walked out the door.

Dean zips up his jeans and goes, shoulders slumped in defeat. He drops the used condom into the trash on his way out, and the door bangs shut behind him with sickening finality.

She wants to run after him, but she can't make her legs move. She covers her face with one hand and starts to cry, shuddering sobs that make her stomach hurt. She can't look at herself in the mirror when she's done, washes her face quickly, hoping her eyes aren't red and swollen enough to attract attention. She drops her panties into the garbage on top of the condom and rushes out into the cool summer night.

She'll find another bar to hustle in from now on.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> title from Nirvana.


End file.
